Dollhouse
by Firestar9mm
Summary: This story is dedicated to my prom dress. For one night, I felt truly beautiful.


Dollhouse  
  
"He must be kidding." Roger tossed the envelope aside.  
"What is it?" Dorothy was reaching to dust atop a high shelf.  
"Don't tell me you're actually interested." He smirked.  
"I'm not. I was just being polite."  
Roger chuckled, shaking his head. "Alex Rosewater is trying to assure the people that Paradigm is a good guy. He's throwing a charity ball."  
"But Paradigm is not good." Dorothy sounded confused. "You say they are not good."  
It interested him to see that she actually paid attention to what he said, that it carried some weight with her. He sighed. "I guess people believe what they want to believe."  
"If you do not wish to go to the ball, do not go." She moved to dust somewhere else.  
He wished things were as simple for him as they seemed to be for her. If Dorothy had to burn the mansion to the ground to rid it of mice, she would do it. "I'm sort of a prominent figure in the city. It would be...uncouth of me not to make an appearance."  
"It seems you have made up your mind then." She left the room.  
He watched the space she'd occupied for a minute, then looked at the invitation again. Roger Smith & Guest...  
  
It was misfortune that the fallen angel happened to be in the tailor's when he was picking up the jacket he planned to wear for the ball, but where this woman was concerned you were lucky if misfortune was all you got.  
If into every life a little rain must fall, the mysterious "Angel" was Roger Smith's own personal hurricane. Wherever she went, trouble was in hot pursuit, and he always seemed to get caught in the middle. As of right now she was calling herself Patricia Lovejoy and working as Alex Rosewater's personal secretary.  
The scowl he'd been preparing turned into a puzzled look when he saw her on the platform, surrounded by a perfect circle of reflections, smiling like a benevolent goddess at the woman attending to her...gown, for lack of a better word. It was pink, of course, with cap sleeves and a hoop skirt. She was drowning in ruffles. The sweetheart neckline dipped low, exposing too much breast (just like all her other clothes).  
She smirked, shattering the illusion of the delicate goddess. "Well, fancy meeting you here."  
He answered the smirk with one of his own. "Have the auditions for Gone With the Wind been moved to today?"  
Six Angels scowled at him. "It's for Alex's ball. By the way, I don't have an escort yet. Are you up to the job, Mr. Negotiator?"  
"Not for all the money in the world" probably wasn't an appropriate answer. Cutting and running was looking better every second, but that probably wasn't appropriate either. Out of options, he groped for an answer and seized the first one his fogged brain presented to him.  
"Hate to disappoint you. I've already got a date. As a matter of fact," he added with happy inspiration, "I'm attending to her dress as of right now."  
She quirked an eyebrow at him, as if she wasn't sure she believed him, but drew back. "Very well. I'll see you both there."  
It sounded like a challenge. He smiled assuredly at her, willing her to believe.  
She retreated to the dressing room, and he breathed an inner sigh of relief as he attended to the dress.  
Now to convince his "date". Ah well, how hard could it be? He was a negotiator.  
  
"I will not." Dorothy tried to escape, but to Roger's surprise, Norman blocked her path.  
"Don't you think you could benefit from this, Miss Dorothy?" the older man asked, his tone soothing. "Broaden your horizons, perhaps? You spend entirely too much time in this mansion, where all wear black and drapes are shut against the sunlight."  
"No, I do not think I will benefit at all. I won't go, Roger Smith, you cannot make me." She tried again to scurry away, but the butler blocked the door like a one-eyed basketball player.  
Roger tried to conceal his frustration. He shrugged, keeping his voice even. "I just thought maybe you would enjoy it."  
"Please. You didn't even want to go." She pinched her mouth; she was being more expressive than usual.  
She had him there, but he hadn't yet used his trump card. He was remembering blues played on a piano as his eyes flickered to a business card lying in the shadows of a wastebasket, torn in two.  
"All right, if you're sure you don't want to go, I'll call Casey Jenkins. She was a charming lady." Roger sighed and put his hands in his pockets, turning around leisurely as if to leave the room.  
Norman's visible eye twinkled; Dorothy stiffened as if an electric pulse had gone through her mechanical body.  
"Well," she said slowly, "I suppose if you are in need of an escort, it would only be right for me to accompany you. I am your servant, after all."  
He almost laughed, but controlled himself. She'd walked right into it. Miss R. Dorothy Wayneright still had a lot to learn about human behavior.  
  
He returned home to the sound of humming. Dorothy was remembering the song Perot had awakened in her. It was a pretty sound.  
"How is it?" he asked the butler.  
The butler's visible eye was smiling. "She does look stunning, sir. Perhaps you should look for yourself."  
She looked at him when she heard the door open. He had meant to say-something-but the sight of her ceased all thoughts and actions.  
Eager to get out of the tailor's before Angel collared him again, he'd chosen the first dress he'd seen in her size, size three. It was white, definitely anathema to his normal tastes, but she looked like an ivory goddess, haloed with flame.  
"You are staring at me. Does it not please you?"  
Her monotone snapped him out of his daze. "No...it looks wonderful on you."  
She digested that as he circled her, examining the way it fell on her. The spaghetti straps emphasized her delicacy; the skirt just skimmed the floor, leaving only the clicking of her heels to prove their existence. "It is not black," she informed him.  
He smiled. "I thought you didn't like black."  
"The rule is that if one lives in the house, one wears black." She couldn't seem to get past it, and whenever he tried to see the back of the dress, she turned so she could keep her eyes on his face. He finally put his hands on his shoulders to hold her still.  
"The ball is not in the house. We're not really breaking the rule." He tilted his head to one side. "Turn around for me."  
She seemed confused but did so, slowly, turning completely around.  
"Is it adequate?" she asked.  
"It's beautiful. You're beautiful," he said, his eyes softening.  
She looked first at him, then to the mirror, unsure of whether or not to believe what either of them told her. Finally she spun before it, much as she had when he'd given her the black coat on Heaven's Day. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. The gathers of the dress unfolded, lifted, opened.   
He smiled at her, unable to help it.  
  
"Dorothy."  
She stared balefully at him, black eyes huge in her pale face.  
He offered her a black-gloved hand. "Dorothy, what's the matter?"  
Her monotone was very low, almost a whisper. "I do not think I can do this."  
For once, the great negotiator's surprise showed plainly on his face. "Dorothy?"  
"Well, Roger Smith!" Angel's tone was mocking. She was on the arm of Alex Rosewater himself. "What a pretty young date. And such a cute dress..."  
Roger bit his tongue to stop a remark about how she looked like she'd been dipped in Bubble Yum. "May I introduce Miss Dorothy Wayneright."  
Dorothy gathered her white skirt to curtsy. "How do you do."  
Angel smirked as she swept past them into the main ballroom, her laughter too loud.  
"Now I know I cannot do this." Dorothy turned and clattered down the hall in her heels.  
He gave chase. It was easy to catch up with her; she could have easily outrun him but she wasn't really trying. He caught her wrists in his hands and spun her to face him.  
"Dorothy, what's the matter?"  
"I am...afraid." She squirmed, trying to get free, trying not to look him in the eye.  
He was confused. "Afraid? Afraid of what?" He hadn't really believed she could feel fear, even after the terror they'd experienced in the subway.  
Dorothy's bottomless eyes shifted to where Angel had been. "Of people like her. Of...normal people."  
Roger blinked. "You're normal."  
She bowed her head. "You know better than anyone that I am not. You are wrong to do what you do, Roger Smith."  
"And what is that?" he asked, letting go of her wrists.  
"You are just like my father. You dress me up and take me out of the dollhouse to play, but when you have tired of me, you put me back and forget about me. Dolls are not meant to walk among men." Her monotone voice sounded almost bitter. "He did not see me. He saw his dead daughter, the real Dorothy Wayneright, heard her sing. I meant nothing."  
"You don't want to be a doll anymore, do you?" Roger asked, very softly.  
"Would you want to," she cried, banging her small fist against her hip, "if you were me?"  
He stared at her, at her pain. He felt her feel it.  
"Would you like it," she pressed, "if you were me?"  
There was a silence; he looked into her eyes and saw a night without stars. Without light.  
"Do you remember how I introduced you to her?" Roger finally asked.  
"Miss Dorothy Wayneright," she said, confused.  
"Miss Dorothy. Not R. Dorothy." He took her hands in his, wishing he hadn't worn the gloves so as to feel her synthetic skin against his. "Understand that now, you are the real Dorothy Wayneright. You are who you are. You mustn't compare yourself to a ghost. Now it is she who means nothing, and you who are real. Know that."  
The black eyes held a suspicious shine; if she'd been a human girl he'd have said it was tears. "Roger?"  
He smiled at her, leading her back to the main ballroom. "You hired me to protect you, remember? I won't let any harm come to you."  
She allowed him to lead her to the center of the massive ballroom, her usual dour expression gone without a trace. In its place was a beautiful bewilderment, one he hadn't thought her capable of.  
All eyes were on them as he bowed to her, unable to stop his smile. He cared not for the stares. He knew not of them.  
"May I have this dance?"  
It seemed an eternity before she gathered her skirts and curtsied, achingly slowly. He raised a hand to strike up the band, his eyes locked on hers, one arm around her.  
"You may," she said, just above a whisper.  
  
*********  
  
Okay, maybe this was a little OOC, but I felt I had to write it because I owe it to the girl I am when I am dressed up, and to the girl I am when I am not. The idea for this story came to me at the prom, while I was watching the candle flame flicker and wondering if I would ever fall in love.   
  
By the way, Dorothy's dress is my own dress, the one I wore that night. Angel's dress is one I couldn't help staring at, wondering if it was a hoop skirt and knowing how impolite it would be to ask.  
  
As anyone can see, I am not too much of an Angel fan. The world, in my opinion, has too many Angels and not enough Roger Smiths.  
  
Feedback is greatly welcomed. Please be constructive.  



End file.
